Hot and Cold
by Ruralstar
Summary: Summary: It's a long night for Cristina Yang after she gets Owen out of the shower. Ep tag for 5x12. A/N: Kevin and Sandra gave us so much in the episode, but mostly from Owen's perspective. I wanted to explore the conflict Cristina might be experiencing


Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shondra Rhimes and Co. No copyright infringement is intended.

Hot and Cold

Cristina snuggled closer to Owen's back. The skin was ice-cold, taut and waxy over his hunched shoulders. His shivering had intensified since the shower. The effects of the water and alcohol were wearing off, the shock of what he had said and done now settling into his subconscious. She hesitated to embrace him and inadvertently trigger a second bout of painful memories. The new crop of gooseflesh prickling his skin however indicated that sharing body heat was not enough. Hoping for the best, Cristina gently laid her arm across his midriff.

Owen's eyes had been fever bright and filled with remorse as he stumbled through the door of her apartment. Cristina thought she was prepared for almost anything. Pizza and a beer in front of the television. A walk in the icy drizzle that had begun to fall an hour before he finally showed up. Action flick followed by coffee in the Starbucks two blocks down. Even a conversation with the two of them perched awkwardly on opposite ends of her worn red sofa. Anything but Owen showing up at her door wreaking of Scotch and stuttering incoherent apologies while still managing to look like he stepped off the pages of GQ.

Owen rolled onto his back and threw his left arm up over his head. His fingers twitched in the tousled red hair and slipped down to cover his eyes. Cristina shifted position, sliding her hand to one side of his naval and lightly stroking the rigid muscles with her fingertips.

She had finished undressing him with clinical detachment. Just another male body with injuries to catalogue and a condition to assess. There was a healing burn on his right forearm and a hook-shaped scar on his left knee. The broad chest was frosted with a scattering of reddish-blond hair that extended to the firm abdomen. He had a runner's legs and buttocks and well defined arm muscles that indicated past use of a gym. Slightly flat feet with neatly trimmed nails and a callous on his left big toe completed the basic picture. Just another man. Then she looked at his face and had to look quickly away. Even in a semi-conscious state the pain and fear of Owen's revelations were etched in every line. Deep scars now fresh wounds, blue eyes that burned like brands whenever they chanced to slit and glance her way. Cristina shuddered at the memory and pressed her palm more firmly against his chilled skin.

"_Usually I can deal with the hot and cold thing, but not today." _

Guilt niggled at the back of Cristina's mind. She had been angry and hurt by his behavior the day before. Emotions which evolved easily into disgust when he arrived late and drunk. Owen had seemed completely oblivious to her feelings about him or the case of William Dunn. Now she knew differently. Without discernable cause his barriers had crumbled at her feet and she could not help but feel responsible. She did not know if those feelings were justified or as ridiculous as Owen's rambling assertions that she deserved better. Why would he make such a comment after their conversation outside the elevator? He may have earned her wrath at the moment, but ire rarely engendered sympathy or warmth in her experience.

Owen's hand dropped down and their fingers touched. Cristina held her breath as a low moan sounded in his throat. An endless moment and the sound died away into a sigh. She relaxed and curled one finger around two of his.

No, it was not guilt that had propelled her into that freezing shower. It was the story told in gutted bursts of speech. A queer light flaring in Owen's eyes, the remnants of a twisted smile pulling at his lips.

"_Trauma surgeon's dream. Body full of holes. He didn't bleed out, I wouldn't let him."_

Owen had refused to give up--until now. What would have happened if she had not been there?

Owen rolled towards her, forcing Cristina to move a second time. She edged up until she was half sitting against the wall behind the bed. Owen's lips came to rest on her shoulder, her arm now slung loosely across his chest.

Walking away would have been the end of any chance with Owen. Still, Cristina had entertained the thought for several minutes longer than she wanted to admit. Doubts shadowed her steps all the way across the parking lot and up to the apartment. The final commitment not made until she was standing in front of her bedroom closet. What could he possibly want with her? Who the hell asked a person out that way? A wan smiled curled Cristina's lips at the thought. Only a doctor could couch such an intimate question in the midst of something so distasteful and not bat an eyelash. Besides, she was hardly in a position to judge what was and was not appropriate in the dating scene. The smile slipped as Cristina pondered Owen's dark hair faintly lit by the streetlights bleeding through the drawn drapes. Five years. His dry spell far longer than she had even known Preston Burke. She had broken the glass ceiling with barely a glance. Only he was the one now lying shattered. Was she really any different? Her pain as yet untouched for fear of the same force that was slowly tearing Owen's psyche from its moorings.

Cristina's hand drifted up to his temple. A layer of cold sweat dampened the skin. She smoothed back the tangled hair and rested her fingertips against the pulse point. The beat was steady but faster than normal for a healthy, sleeping man. His hand rose and brushed against her intrusive touch. Cristina snagged the fingers and squeezed them gently. He stiffened and she waited until the muscles relaxed before urging the hand back down.

From their first conversation on the promenade overlooking the lobby until this evening, she had been the one person Owen dared to let in. Emotions were running rampant beneath his chilly exterior. Their interactions alternated between hot and cold in a vain struggle to balance the personal with the professional. An exercise doomed to failure as his world inevitably crumbled beneath the weight of horrific memories. Cristina felt the fool for having missed the signs. She had never been good at this sort of thing. Too caught up in her career to learn the emotional subtleties that Meredith took for granted. Always running from the one experience she could not change even if she had been the competent adult of the present and not the terrified child of the past.

She could not erase Owen's memories of lying for two hours across a dying man. Reveling in that man's survival and all that he had learned from the experience only to near drown in the unique despair only suicide can spawn. No help for that except to stand in the cold shower. Touch him and wait for him to see her. But Owen had seen very little as the water dripped down. Lost back there in a miasma of Scotch clouded memories. Not present even now as they lay in her bed. Him naked, her fully clothed in a worn pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

Owen twitched and shuddered, gasping warm puffs of air against Cristina's shoulder. His fingers curled around her right wrist in an iron grip that flexed and released with the pattern of his breathing. Cristina gritted her teeth at the pressure and held still. A stream of curses hissed from his lips and he wrenched away, throwing her arm free as he turned. The words faded and Owen's arms rose up to cover his head as he curled into a fetal ball. In the muted light the flesh of his fingers was chalk-white in startling contrast to the red hair. They kneaded his scalp and dragged down to lace across the back of his neck. The vertebrae of his spine stood out in sharp relief as shivers wracked his frame. More words muffled by the pillow and then a long stuttering sigh. The creak of clenching bone was jarring in the eerie silence that followed.

"Owen?" His name tasted odd in her mouth, Sweet as forbidden fruit, bitter with the waiting. His breathing was shallow as if he lay on the verge of sleep. Cristina touched his shoulder and tried again. "Owen?"

The breathing came deeper. Cristina slid down and his body relaxed marginally against hers. She reached to touch his cheek, not surprised at the wetness lingering there. Words and tears, the dreams forced them to the surface in defiance of the control he struggled so hard to maintain every waking minute.

Cristina felt suddenly overwhelmed. Owen wanted to make it up to her. Everything else about the evening might be a blur come sunrise but she knew he would remember that vow. Why did he feel the need? What had she done to deserve that level of remorse? Cristina barely suppressed the urge to shake him awake and demand an explanation.

Seeking distraction, she rose from the bed and went to the window. She drew the drapes back very slowly to minimize the noise and stared out at the vast gray wall of Seattle Grace rising up across the street. Here and there lighted windows slatted with blinds marred the concrete. Inside those walls a thousand people moved. Patients slept in fitful bursts, staff members roamed the halls intent on their tasks. Some were thinking of mortality, others were praying for a miracle. Life moved along in defiance of dreams. It did not wait for humanity to make up its collective minds. Cristina grimaced. How little would have been accomplished if fate were dependent on the insecurities of the human race? Hands on hips, she turned from the window and back to the bed.

Owen's bare back was now softly lit by the amber streetlights reflected from below the window. Muscles rippled beneath the pale skin as he shifted position. Fine hair dusted the nape of his neck and over the exposed shoulder, standing straight in the absence of her warmth. Cristina slowly crossed the room and lay back down on the bed, pulling the covers over both of them.

If anyone had asked, she would have denied her secret hopes for the evening. After the urge to flee had retreated all sorts of ideas began to form in the back of Cristina's brain. Owen was not conventionally handsome, but he moved with a certain fluidity. Each action was precise and efficient. The reasons behind that level of control did not make him any less appealing in a strictly primal sense. After the vent she no longer felt the twinge of fear that he might go off on her physically. Instead there was excitement at the prospect of exploring something new and different. Experiencing the passion their brief interludes had only hinted at. Owen was not Preston Burke and she dared to let herself imagine what sex with him would be like. All of that control channeled elsewhere or turned off entirely. Startling blue eyes fixing on hers as strong arms pulled her close. His mouth warm and pliant against hers. Their tongues tangling together in frenzied explorations before pulling free to trace heated trails over her quivering skin. Deft hands threading her hair and dropping down to tease her nipples until they ached. His muffled laughter as he nuzzled her cleavage. Thick beard chafing the tender flesh as soft lips trailed kisses down her stomach to her groin. Then a glance up and the flicker of a genuine smile as he gauged her reaction before looking down. Moist tongue plunging deep inside, tasting her, spawning spirals of sensation as he explored… Such thoughts spurred her on. Cristina took a lengthy shower and more time in choosing an outfit than she could ever remember wasting. Then she had sat down to wait.

And wait…

And wait….

Cristina shook her head. Anger had slowly eroded anticipation. True, he had startled her with the Armani suit and the flowers. Then the stale scene of Scotch and sweat rolled into the room, erasing any hopes his appearance might have rekindled. She did not want to hear the excuses and found herself stunned by their vehemence. Hours later she had come full circle. The anticipation—albeit a shadow of its earlier intensity—was back.

Outside a truck backfired as it slowly lumbered down the street. Owen gasped sharply and Cristina moved closer. She put her arm around him and rested a firm hand against his chest. Owen coughed and began to breathe evenly again. His hand covered hers as he whispered a few incoherent words. Cristina did not try to understand. Even slurred the tone of sadness was obvious. It tore at her in places she did not know existed—or had simply ignored until tonight. Time passed and Owen's sleep deepened. Lulled by his warmth and the steady heartbeat beneath her fingers, Cristina drifted off.

~*~*~

She awoke with a start, acutely aware of the warm body sharing the bed and the buffer of air between them. Cautiously, Cristina cracked an eyelid.

Owen lay sleeping on his stomach. Both arms hugged the pillow and he faced her. Morning light, shadowed by the bulk of the hospital, tinged his skin a dull gray. Blond eyelashes fluttered against the high cheek bones as his eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids. His lips were pressed into a thin line and his jaw tightly clamped, as if to bar future revelations from spilling free.

Cristina kept very still and barely breathed. At some point during the night he must have woken enough to realize his surroundings. Unable to find the energy to leave the apartment, he had summoned enough decorum to remove himself from her personal space. Admirable, if a bit unbelievable. She sensed that he had been watching her. Facial expression and body position indicated as much, but there was something more that she could not quite define. The sensation was unnerving.

Dawn slowly lightened the room as she watched him. Moving through shades of blush to amber, it picked strands of copper from Owen's red hair. Cristina marveled at his sleeping form, held impossibly rigid even now. Last night felt like a horribly twisted dream. She did not feel enlightened, only further confused. A stirring of fear lay beneath the compassion Owen engendered within her. He had stood naked in the shower. The Armani suit merely a shell containing the ghost of a man. The substance of Owen Hunt was scattered in pieces from Seattle to Bagdad and somewhere beyond. The fear lay in expectations. How did one gather life blood from the sand or a soul from the wind? Cristina sighed, feeling lightheaded for having held her breath for so long.

Owen rolled over to face the far wall. Cristina studied the broad back now painted a healthy bronze. She knew the power of those muscles. He had cradled her like a child months ago. The swing outside of Joe's bar would have knocked her senseless if it had not been so carefully controlled. And standing on the vent…. Cristina licked her lips and felt the memory slide away beneath the weight of the present. Here he was vulnerable in ways that made her ache with pity and frustration.

Cristina shifted onto her back. Her hand came to rest against his lower back. She left it there, finding it easier to connect without him being aware. Somewhere in the back of his slowly fogging brain, she knew Owen had made a conscious choice. Coming to her apartment loaded was more than reassurance that he had not stood her up. It was his way of reaching out. He needed help—her help--and had no idea how to ask. The question of why rose unbidden. Cristina squashed it flat, sick of the indecision and positive that this was only the beginning.

Her fingers twitched impulsively and Owen shivered at the touch. A part of her wanted to roll over and shove him awake. Demand that he leave and take his issues with him. She did not want to travel the road he was on. The journey was too similar to one she should have taken years ago. Cristina grimaced and stared at the ceiling. It was a small part of her consciousness devoid of the energy or will to do more than clench her fist.

She did not know where to start. The fact that he was looking to her struck Cristina as patently ludicrous. She did not 'do' feelings. Fear as much as joy, were foreign beasts. Yethe came back for more and she welcomed him without daring to think beyond those brief moments.

Now she would have to.

Cristina slipped from the bed. Turning, she pulled the comforter over his shoulders and tucked it down to keep out the draft. She needed time to think before he woke. There would be questions in those haunted blue eyes even if no words passed his lips.

As she picked out clothes and headed for the bathroom, thoughts of the practical drifted into Cristina's mind. She groaned. Callie would be awake soon. Izzy had undoubtedly spread the news of her impending date with Owen to most of the staff. More questions, which she would resist answering on principle, especially now. The decision to leave before anyone could object was made in the space of a heartbeat. Cristina wondered at the wisdom of it even as she gathered together her essentials for the day and returned to the bedroom.

Owen did not stir as she dressed and reached for her shoes. She stood up and watched him for a moment more. Waking up alone was never pleasant. Worse when you did not know precisely where you were or why. A blush of regret heated her skin and Cristina looked away. She finished dressing in the dark living room and was halfway to the door when she spotted Owen's suit lying over the back of a chair. She had placed it there to dry over the heating duct the night before. While she considered whether to actually sleep in the same bed with him, she had dried his shirt and undergarments and left them folded neatly on the seat. Seeing them made their predicament even more real. Owen had spent the night and she could not just walk away without a word.

Cristina went into the kitchen and pulled a piece of scrap paper and a pen from the drawer beneath the phone. She stood in front of the counter, pen poised, for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of Callie rising drifted down the short hall to her left and the moment was broken. She wrote quickly and walked back into the living room to retrieve his clothes. A hasty survey of the room to assure that none of Owen's belongings had fallen on the floor and then she returned to the bedroom. She placed the clothes on the chest at the end of the bed and tucked the note into a fold of his shirt. A last glance proved that Owen was still asleep and left her wishing she had just walked away months ago and utterly certain she could not have. Swallowing a sigh, Cristina went to draw the curtains and left the bedroom without a sound.

~THE~END~


End file.
